[Supernatural]: Who's Afraid of the Sun?
Title: Who's Afraid of the Sun?
Fandom: Supernatural
Prompt: Here at ohsam: Sam has seen Dean torturing demons. I'd really, really like to see something exploring a visceral response to this. On some level, maybe even so deep he's not aware of it, post-6.22!Sam is *freaking out* about Dean. He's scared of him, having physical/emotional reactions that he doesn't even necessarily understand, whenever his brother is around, when he hears his voice, when he sees him with a weapon...all of it. His whole reality, his safe place, is cracked right down to its foundations.
Warnings: Gore, torture, Hell, badwrong.
Notes: So this has actually been in the works for ages and ages, only I wasn't sure how I was going to construct it, and then this just...emerged. Like some kind of demented child. I have no idea.
Summary: "Dean had been a torturer for ten years. Sam had been the tortured for one-hundred-eighty. Maybe those roles never changed."
Dean knew torture.
It was knowledge he’d earned, Sam knew, under the knife as much as wielding it. But it amounted to the same thing. Dean knew where to push and pull and twist to draw out what they needed to know. And screams, in between obscenities.
Before getting his soul, it wouldn’t have touched him at all. Afterward, it sent a prickle down his spine, watching Dean wield the weapons of his macabre half-trade, his smile too thin and sharp, false but with an edge like truth.
He stood a safe distance away, holding an exorcism, and realized that that tickle felt a bit like an itch.
**
There were fingers carding softly through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, tracing along his scalp. “Open your eyes, Sammy,” said Dean, “Time to get going.” Sam grimaced, and just cracked one eye open.
“It’s not even light out.”
“This is as light as it’s ever getting, and you know that,” Dean said, and tapped his foot impatiently. “Come on, Sam. I let you rest for a good long time. It’s time to wake up.”
“Okay, okay,” Sam grumbled, and opened his eyes. His arms were spread wide, a distant throbbing in his hands. There were worms squirming through holes in his palms. Dean smiled with all his teeth.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s right.” He lifted his right hand and stroked the knife along the sole of one of Sam’s bare feet. “Now, Sam,” he said sternly. “You’re going to be good for me, right?”
**
He woke up in the middle of the night shaking, just on the verge of crying out. Dean was stepping out of the bathroom, wiping blood (water) off his hands. He blinked at Sam. “-hey, you okay?” He said, eyebrows pulling together.
“Yeah,” said Sam hastily. “Yeah, fine.” It was just a dream. Just a weird, fucked up dream (like all of them) and that wasn’t Dean anyway, Dean wasn’t-
--wasn’t like that. Fuck.
Dean didn’t look convinced. “You’re not scratching,” he said, eyes narrowing.
“No,” Sam said quickly. “Just a bad dream. Normal one,” he added hastily.
“Yeah,” said Dean after a slightly too long moment. “Yeah, okay. Go back to sleep, ‘kay? It was creepy having RoboSam watch me while I slept. You don’t need to start too.” Dean flopped onto the bed and rolled over.
Sam laid back down and looked at the ceiling. His skin was crawling. So Dean tortured demons sometimes. It was necessary. They needed information right now, more than anything, and demons knew shit. Maybe it was getting to him, but it shouldn’t.
It shouldn’t.
**
“Yes, that’s it,” Dean cooed, fingers squeezing something deep deep deep in the cavity below the ribs but above the spine. Sam was panting, trying so hard not to scream, not to make a sound though he couldn’t keep the whimpering pants down. His brother had been so meticulous, peeling aside layer of skin, of muscle, of the membrane that held his insides together.
“Dean,” he said, “Dean, god-”
“Squishy on the inside,” Dean said, and Sam could feel the deliberate tightening of his fingers on something vital and soft and wet. “You get it, don’t you, Sam? This is where we’re supposed to be. You being pulled apart, and me…well, doing the pulling. After all, who knows you better than me?” Dean drew his hand out and licked the wetness from his fingers, blood and other things. “I know you so well, Sammy. And this is what I’m good at. This has always been what I’m good at.”
“Ugh,” Sam panted, trying not to see his own bare and glistening entrails heaving as he tried to breathe. “Hurts. Huuurts-”
“It’s okay,” Dean said. “That’s how it’s supposed to work.” He reached in again, burrowed his hand elbow deep until his fingers found Sam’s heart, and his palm felt cool against the burning in his blood.
**
They’ve caught another demon. Dean was looking at it like the very sight of it made him sick, which it probably did. “We don’t have a bone to pick with you,” he said, flipping the demon-killing knife up and catching it, up and catching it, and Sam resisted the urge to tell him that he’d lose fingers that way. “Just with your boss Crowley. So how about you tell us where to find him?”
He always sank into this role so easily, Sam thought. With such alacrity. The thought sounded wrong in his head and he turned it off. The demon sneered.
“Do your worst,” it laughed. “I’ve been in Hell.”
“With pleasure,” Dean said. “Who do you think taught me?” And he smiled, with all his teeth.
Sam felt sick. His head thudded dully. There was something boiling up inside him and clawing to get out, and if it escaped he’d never be able to put it back again. The demon was looking at him, and a knowing expression dawned in its eyes.
“You sure you want to watch this, Sammy?” It asked, and Dean looked at him, confused, and Sam couldn’t, just couldn’t.
“I’ll be right back,” he said tightly, and fled.
He threw up outside in the bushes, trying not to listen, wondering if Dean was already (pulling tendons away from bone one at a time) starting. He emerged a couple seconds later, though, as Sam was wiping his mouth clean on the back of his hand.
“Sam,” he said, and stopped. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” Sam said, desperately. “Nothing, I swear. Nothing.” Forty years, he thought. Forty years of giving back all the pain Hell, life (I) gave you. Do you ever miss it? The words were like vomit, surging in his throat. He swallowed them. “Just…freaked out a little for a second.”
Dean rocked on his heels, his expression one of consternation.
“Let’s just finish this,” Sam said, and Dean rubbed his mouth and frowned and looked away, but eventually said, “Yeah, okay, let’s do that.”
**
“I love power tools,” Dean said. “Efficient, powerful, and - hold still or I’ll miss.” Dean hummed a snatch of something through his teeth as he placed the drill bit on Sam’s knee. “And that’d make me really irritated. You don’t want that, Sammy, do you?”
“No,” he breathed.
Dean pulled the bit away and tested the drill. It whirred smoothly, and he set it back in place and started it again. It went through the skin like butter and Sam didn’t scream until it hit bone and started chewing through.
“Anyway,” Dean was saying. “You know what I miss about being alive? The Impala. That was a damn good car, Sam. -that’s your kneecap, Sam. Think I can get through it without hitting the cartilage? Perfect little hole.”
“Dean,” Sam cried out, and the drill stopped, and one hand patted his chest, an easy, careless gesture of comfort so familiar it hurt.
“Just relax,” Dean said, “And let me hurt you.”
**
Sam watched Dean.
He watched his eyes and his shoulders and his smile and everything, every moment, waiting, expecting, something to change. Dean had been a torturer for ten years. Sam had been the tortured for one-hundred-eighty. Maybe those roles never changed.
If it came down to it, he thought in the dead of night, fighting not to sleep, better Dean than Lucifer. If someone had to kill him for forever, better Dean than anyone else.
Dean knew how to hurt in all the right ways. It felt good, he remembered Dean saying, and maybe that was how he’d make his brother happy, the only way he ever would. After all, Dean was always smiling when he cut Sam into pieces. Smiling.
(Sam suspected he was going a little crazy. It didn’t feel like the wall was cracking. He felt fine. Fine.)
“Sam,” Dean said suddenly, from the driver’s seat of the car. That was a damn good car. Sam flinched.
“Yeah?” He said, dragging himself out of blood and pain, out of Hell.
“What’s up with you?”
Sam chewed his lip. “Nothing,” he said, quickly. “Nothing’s up. I’m fine.” I’m sorry I’m sorry don’t hurt me I’m sorry, something in him gibbered, and he tried to shut it off. It’s just in my head. It’s not Dean. Not really.
“Really?” Dean sounded skeptical. “Because - something’s been weird with you. Lately. I mean, for one thing you flinch whenever I look at you.” Dean stared out at the road. Sam could sense him gearing up, bracing himself for something. “Did I do-” he said, finally, in a rush, and Sam cut him off.
“No,” he said, “No, you didn’t do anything, it’s fine, it’s fine,” and he could hear the desperation in his own voice, so unconvincing. Dean didn’t seem to know what to do.
“If something’s wrong,” he started, and Sam could feel himself shaking. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, fervently. “Nothing’s wrong, I swear.”
Dean didn’t look comforted. Sam couldn’t blame him. He knew how he sounded. He just couldn’t stop himself. His heart was thudding too loudly in his ears. Dean swallowed. “Is it Hell?” he asked, finally, quietly.
“No,” said Sam, and heard the yes in the waver in his voice.
I would lay down for your knife, he thought, couldn’t say. If you wanted me to, needed me to, I would.
“Fuck,” Dean said, then louder, “Fuck,” and Sam jumped, because it was never good when Dean was angry. Everything was so much worse when he was angry. “Is it the dreams?” Dean demanded. “Is it getting to you when you sleep? Sam-” He cut off.
“Please,” said Sam. He could feel it yawning underneath him, great black pit with red at the bottom and Dean, waiting. Needing his pain. “Please, Dean,” and the rest came spilling out of his mouth before he could stop it, “Don’t hurt me, not anymore, I’ll be still, I promise, I promise-”
He didn’t realize why Dean was stopping the car until his brother clawed the door open and nearly fell to the side of the road, retching until Sam thought his body would turn inside out, past when anything came up.
**
“I’m sorry,” Sam said desperately. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Dean ran his fingers through his hair and smiled, small and almost gentle as he filleted another slice of muscle tenderly from bone.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. This isn’t about you, though, Sam. This is about me. It’s finally about me. And don’t I deserve this? Don’t I deserve you?”
**
“Sam,” Dean said, and “Sammy.” His voice was broken, fractured, and he was pacing back and forth as Sam sat quiet and still (as he’d been trained) and stared at him blankly. He’d done wrong, he knew that. Wished he could just take it back. Knew it didn’t work that way.
“You have to know I’d never hurt you,” Dean said. Sam nodded.
“It’s just Hell fucking with your head,” Dean said. Sam nodded.
“Sam, I can’t,” Dean said finally, desperately. Sam nodded.
And then said quietly, “Do you ever miss it?” Dean looked sick.
“No,” he said, “Jesus, no - that’s not - I don’t -”
“I think I might miss it,” Sam said, and didn’t know where the calm in his voice came from. “Being tortured. In some ways it was easy.”
Dean turned away, his shoulders tight. “Sam,” he said, then stopped. “Fuck. Sam…” Sam looked down at his hands, whole, complete.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Stop saying that,” Dean snapped. Sam flinched, and Dean turned sharply away, the lines on his face rigid with self-disgust.
“It’s not your fault,” Sam said quietly.
“Isn’t it?” Dean said bitterly, and Sam shook his head.
“Never was,” he said, and still didn’t know where the serenity came from. “Never has been.”
**
Dean was using garden shears to cut through his rib cage. Each bone gave way one at a time, each with the same loud crack until Dean was lifting the entirety of the front of his body away, baring everything. Sam stared at Dean, blood bubbling from his lips, and didn’t make a sound.
“I could spend forever with you, Sam,” Dean said. “And I will. I promise you. Just you and me, forever. You suffer so well. No one but me will ever touch you again.”
One small, surgical cut and Sam felt his left lung start to deflate. He struggled for air, every breath burning in his throat. Dean sat down.
“It’ll take a little while,” he said conversationally. “But this way I can actually see your heart stop beating. That’s pretty neat.”
“I love you,” Sam said, because it seemed important. Dean smiled at him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. Just relax, Sam. Just rest.”
**
Sam woke up sobbing silently. He was encircled in warm arms and could smell Dean’s sweat-and-oil smell from where his face was pressed into his brother’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” Dean was saying, his voice rough-edged. “You’re okay, Sam.”
“Dean,” Sam said, and didn’t know how to follow it, so he said it again. “Dean.”
“Come on, Sam,” Dean said. “It’s time to wake up.”
His eyes flew open. The ceiling was red, and Dean was holding a knife.
Fandom: Supernatural
Prompt: Here at ohsam: Sam has seen Dean torturing demons. I'd really, really like to see something exploring a visceral response to this. On some level, maybe even so deep he's not aware of it, post-6.22!Sam is *freaking out* about Dean. He's scared of him, having physical/emotional reactions that he doesn't even necessarily understand, whenever his brother is around, when he hears his voice, when he sees him with a weapon...all of it. His whole reality, his safe place, is cracked right down to its foundations.
Warnings: Gore, torture, Hell, badwrong.
Notes: So this has actually been in the works for ages and ages, only I wasn't sure how I was going to construct it, and then this just...emerged. Like some kind of demented child. I have no idea.
Summary: "Dean had been a torturer for ten years. Sam had been the tortured for one-hundred-eighty. Maybe those roles never changed."
Dean knew torture.
It was knowledge he’d earned, Sam knew, under the knife as much as wielding it. But it amounted to the same thing. Dean knew where to push and pull and twist to draw out what they needed to know. And screams, in between obscenities.
Before getting his soul, it wouldn’t have touched him at all. Afterward, it sent a prickle down his spine, watching Dean wield the weapons of his macabre half-trade, his smile too thin and sharp, false but with an edge like truth.
He stood a safe distance away, holding an exorcism, and realized that that tickle felt a bit like an itch.
**
There were fingers carding softly through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, tracing along his scalp. “Open your eyes, Sammy,” said Dean, “Time to get going.” Sam grimaced, and just cracked one eye open.
“It’s not even light out.”
“This is as light as it’s ever getting, and you know that,” Dean said, and tapped his foot impatiently. “Come on, Sam. I let you rest for a good long time. It’s time to wake up.”
“Okay, okay,” Sam grumbled, and opened his eyes. His arms were spread wide, a distant throbbing in his hands. There were worms squirming through holes in his palms. Dean smiled with all his teeth.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s right.” He lifted his right hand and stroked the knife along the sole of one of Sam’s bare feet. “Now, Sam,” he said sternly. “You’re going to be good for me, right?”
**
He woke up in the middle of the night shaking, just on the verge of crying out. Dean was stepping out of the bathroom, wiping blood (water) off his hands. He blinked at Sam. “-hey, you okay?” He said, eyebrows pulling together.
“Yeah,” said Sam hastily. “Yeah, fine.” It was just a dream. Just a weird, fucked up dream (like all of them) and that wasn’t Dean anyway, Dean wasn’t-
--wasn’t like that. Fuck.
Dean didn’t look convinced. “You’re not scratching,” he said, eyes narrowing.
“No,” Sam said quickly. “Just a bad dream. Normal one,” he added hastily.
“Yeah,” said Dean after a slightly too long moment. “Yeah, okay. Go back to sleep, ‘kay? It was creepy having RoboSam watch me while I slept. You don’t need to start too.” Dean flopped onto the bed and rolled over.
Sam laid back down and looked at the ceiling. His skin was crawling. So Dean tortured demons sometimes. It was necessary. They needed information right now, more than anything, and demons knew shit. Maybe it was getting to him, but it shouldn’t.
It shouldn’t.
**
“Yes, that’s it,” Dean cooed, fingers squeezing something deep deep deep in the cavity below the ribs but above the spine. Sam was panting, trying so hard not to scream, not to make a sound though he couldn’t keep the whimpering pants down. His brother had been so meticulous, peeling aside layer of skin, of muscle, of the membrane that held his insides together.
“Dean,” he said, “Dean, god-”
“Squishy on the inside,” Dean said, and Sam could feel the deliberate tightening of his fingers on something vital and soft and wet. “You get it, don’t you, Sam? This is where we’re supposed to be. You being pulled apart, and me…well, doing the pulling. After all, who knows you better than me?” Dean drew his hand out and licked the wetness from his fingers, blood and other things. “I know you so well, Sammy. And this is what I’m good at. This has always been what I’m good at.”
“Ugh,” Sam panted, trying not to see his own bare and glistening entrails heaving as he tried to breathe. “Hurts. Huuurts-”
“It’s okay,” Dean said. “That’s how it’s supposed to work.” He reached in again, burrowed his hand elbow deep until his fingers found Sam’s heart, and his palm felt cool against the burning in his blood.
**
They’ve caught another demon. Dean was looking at it like the very sight of it made him sick, which it probably did. “We don’t have a bone to pick with you,” he said, flipping the demon-killing knife up and catching it, up and catching it, and Sam resisted the urge to tell him that he’d lose fingers that way. “Just with your boss Crowley. So how about you tell us where to find him?”
He always sank into this role so easily, Sam thought. With such alacrity. The thought sounded wrong in his head and he turned it off. The demon sneered.
“Do your worst,” it laughed. “I’ve been in Hell.”
“With pleasure,” Dean said. “Who do you think taught me?” And he smiled, with all his teeth.
Sam felt sick. His head thudded dully. There was something boiling up inside him and clawing to get out, and if it escaped he’d never be able to put it back again. The demon was looking at him, and a knowing expression dawned in its eyes.
“You sure you want to watch this, Sammy?” It asked, and Dean looked at him, confused, and Sam couldn’t, just couldn’t.
“I’ll be right back,” he said tightly, and fled.
He threw up outside in the bushes, trying not to listen, wondering if Dean was already (pulling tendons away from bone one at a time) starting. He emerged a couple seconds later, though, as Sam was wiping his mouth clean on the back of his hand.
“Sam,” he said, and stopped. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” Sam said, desperately. “Nothing, I swear. Nothing.” Forty years, he thought. Forty years of giving back all the pain Hell, life (I) gave you. Do you ever miss it? The words were like vomit, surging in his throat. He swallowed them. “Just…freaked out a little for a second.”
Dean rocked on his heels, his expression one of consternation.
“Let’s just finish this,” Sam said, and Dean rubbed his mouth and frowned and looked away, but eventually said, “Yeah, okay, let’s do that.”
**
“I love power tools,” Dean said. “Efficient, powerful, and - hold still or I’ll miss.” Dean hummed a snatch of something through his teeth as he placed the drill bit on Sam’s knee. “And that’d make me really irritated. You don’t want that, Sammy, do you?”
“No,” he breathed.
Dean pulled the bit away and tested the drill. It whirred smoothly, and he set it back in place and started it again. It went through the skin like butter and Sam didn’t scream until it hit bone and started chewing through.
“Anyway,” Dean was saying. “You know what I miss about being alive? The Impala. That was a damn good car, Sam. -that’s your kneecap, Sam. Think I can get through it without hitting the cartilage? Perfect little hole.”
“Dean,” Sam cried out, and the drill stopped, and one hand patted his chest, an easy, careless gesture of comfort so familiar it hurt.
“Just relax,” Dean said, “And let me hurt you.”
**
Sam watched Dean.
He watched his eyes and his shoulders and his smile and everything, every moment, waiting, expecting, something to change. Dean had been a torturer for ten years. Sam had been the tortured for one-hundred-eighty. Maybe those roles never changed.
If it came down to it, he thought in the dead of night, fighting not to sleep, better Dean than Lucifer. If someone had to kill him for forever, better Dean than anyone else.
Dean knew how to hurt in all the right ways. It felt good, he remembered Dean saying, and maybe that was how he’d make his brother happy, the only way he ever would. After all, Dean was always smiling when he cut Sam into pieces. Smiling.
(Sam suspected he was going a little crazy. It didn’t feel like the wall was cracking. He felt fine. Fine.)
“Sam,” Dean said suddenly, from the driver’s seat of the car. That was a damn good car. Sam flinched.
“Yeah?” He said, dragging himself out of blood and pain, out of Hell.
“What’s up with you?”
Sam chewed his lip. “Nothing,” he said, quickly. “Nothing’s up. I’m fine.” I’m sorry I’m sorry don’t hurt me I’m sorry, something in him gibbered, and he tried to shut it off. It’s just in my head. It’s not Dean. Not really.
“Really?” Dean sounded skeptical. “Because - something’s been weird with you. Lately. I mean, for one thing you flinch whenever I look at you.” Dean stared out at the road. Sam could sense him gearing up, bracing himself for something. “Did I do-” he said, finally, in a rush, and Sam cut him off.
“No,” he said, “No, you didn’t do anything, it’s fine, it’s fine,” and he could hear the desperation in his own voice, so unconvincing. Dean didn’t seem to know what to do.
“If something’s wrong,” he started, and Sam could feel himself shaking. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, fervently. “Nothing’s wrong, I swear.”
Dean didn’t look comforted. Sam couldn’t blame him. He knew how he sounded. He just couldn’t stop himself. His heart was thudding too loudly in his ears. Dean swallowed. “Is it Hell?” he asked, finally, quietly.
“No,” said Sam, and heard the yes in the waver in his voice.
I would lay down for your knife, he thought, couldn’t say. If you wanted me to, needed me to, I would.
“Fuck,” Dean said, then louder, “Fuck,” and Sam jumped, because it was never good when Dean was angry. Everything was so much worse when he was angry. “Is it the dreams?” Dean demanded. “Is it getting to you when you sleep? Sam-” He cut off.
“Please,” said Sam. He could feel it yawning underneath him, great black pit with red at the bottom and Dean, waiting. Needing his pain. “Please, Dean,” and the rest came spilling out of his mouth before he could stop it, “Don’t hurt me, not anymore, I’ll be still, I promise, I promise-”
He didn’t realize why Dean was stopping the car until his brother clawed the door open and nearly fell to the side of the road, retching until Sam thought his body would turn inside out, past when anything came up.
**
“I’m sorry,” Sam said desperately. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Dean ran his fingers through his hair and smiled, small and almost gentle as he filleted another slice of muscle tenderly from bone.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. This isn’t about you, though, Sam. This is about me. It’s finally about me. And don’t I deserve this? Don’t I deserve you?”
**
“Sam,” Dean said, and “Sammy.” His voice was broken, fractured, and he was pacing back and forth as Sam sat quiet and still (as he’d been trained) and stared at him blankly. He’d done wrong, he knew that. Wished he could just take it back. Knew it didn’t work that way.
“You have to know I’d never hurt you,” Dean said. Sam nodded.
“It’s just Hell fucking with your head,” Dean said. Sam nodded.
“Sam, I can’t,” Dean said finally, desperately. Sam nodded.
And then said quietly, “Do you ever miss it?” Dean looked sick.
“No,” he said, “Jesus, no - that’s not - I don’t -”
“I think I might miss it,” Sam said, and didn’t know where the calm in his voice came from. “Being tortured. In some ways it was easy.”
Dean turned away, his shoulders tight. “Sam,” he said, then stopped. “Fuck. Sam…” Sam looked down at his hands, whole, complete.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Stop saying that,” Dean snapped. Sam flinched, and Dean turned sharply away, the lines on his face rigid with self-disgust.
“It’s not your fault,” Sam said quietly.
“Isn’t it?” Dean said bitterly, and Sam shook his head.
“Never was,” he said, and still didn’t know where the serenity came from. “Never has been.”
**
Dean was using garden shears to cut through his rib cage. Each bone gave way one at a time, each with the same loud crack until Dean was lifting the entirety of the front of his body away, baring everything. Sam stared at Dean, blood bubbling from his lips, and didn’t make a sound.
“I could spend forever with you, Sam,” Dean said. “And I will. I promise you. Just you and me, forever. You suffer so well. No one but me will ever touch you again.”
One small, surgical cut and Sam felt his left lung start to deflate. He struggled for air, every breath burning in his throat. Dean sat down.
“It’ll take a little while,” he said conversationally. “But this way I can actually see your heart stop beating. That’s pretty neat.”
“I love you,” Sam said, because it seemed important. Dean smiled at him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. Just relax, Sam. Just rest.”
**
Sam woke up sobbing silently. He was encircled in warm arms and could smell Dean’s sweat-and-oil smell from where his face was pressed into his brother’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” Dean was saying, his voice rough-edged. “You’re okay, Sam.”
“Dean,” Sam said, and didn’t know how to follow it, so he said it again. “Dean.”
“Come on, Sam,” Dean said. “It’s time to wake up.”
His eyes flew open. The ceiling was red, and Dean was holding a knife.